


Squirm

by Zai42



Series: October 2020 [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Corruption, F/M, Gore, Other, Parasites, Trypophobia, Worms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: He thinks, at the time, that perhaps she is sick.Prompt: Parasite
Relationships: Oscar Wilde/Jane Prentiss
Series: October 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946893
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10
Collections: A Wilde Ride October Collection





	Squirm

**Author's Note:**

> Remember the tonal whiplash I mentioned yesterday?

It’s cold when she comes to him, which is perhaps how she manages to get so close. The summer heat would have brought along the sweetrot stench, would have made him wonder why she kept herself so tightly wrapped in her coat. As it is, he invites her in, offers her his hand and wonders at how thin her skin seems, beneath the silk of her gloves. How he can feel the jutting of bones in her covered wrist.

He thinks, at the time, that perhaps she is sick.

The woman is tall - shorter than he is, but not by a great deal - and she keeps her hood low over her face, holding her cloak around herself, declining with a quick shake of her head when Oscar offers to take it for her. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asks gently; there is a fragility to this woman that worries him, that stirs at the old protective instinct that even years of war had failed to completely smother. (Zolf has called it a virtue more than once; he may even be right, but being a virtue didn’t stop it from being a weakness.)

The woman looks up and meets his eyes for the first time, and he startles back a step. Her eyes gleam like scarabs in her pale face, and as her hood falls back, he wonders how he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t _seen -_

Her face is a mask of rot and death, her skull a nest of parasites. He tries to jerk away but her delicate hand is gripping his wrist with a strength it should not possess. She pulls herself close to him, her cloak fluttering to the floor. The red dress she wears beneath it is in tatters, glimpses of pale, worm-picked, blue-veined flesh showing through where the fabric has rotted away; she molds herself against him like a lover would, and her body is hollow, papery like a wasp’s nest, humming like a hive on a summer day. She wraps Oscar in her embrace, her arms going around his neck, her face tilted up towards his, her pale and cracked lips brushing against his jaw. Something squirms against his skin and he thinks he might faint. His back hits a wall.

“The infection...” the woman murmurs. “The infestation...did you think it had vanished?”

Her hands cradle his jaw. Tilts his face towards hers. He wonders when he began crying, as she seals her mouth over his in a twisted satire of a kiss. He cries out in weak horror, and something that must be her tongue presses into him, slick and writhing and _dear gods please be her tongue -_

He collapses and she follows, losing her shape as she goes, the integrity of her form gone as the worms spill out of her in a wave, only the vaguest suggestion of a human woman left. Her skirts settle around them, fanning over his lap with a flutter like a curtain in an abandoned house; beneath she is robed with silvery worms, and he wonders if she still has legs or if they are what bore her here. 

He’s been fucked before. Good, bad, clumsy, talented - he doesn’t lack experience with opening his legs, with swallowing his own needs for the sake of information, for the greater good.

This is not like that.

The woman - the thing - the _monster_ holding him down plunges into him and he screams, screams like he hasn’t in years, like he doesn’t think he’s ever screamed. It _hurts,_ hurts in the way a careless lover would hurt, his body forced open and used as the crawling, squirming things twist their way inside him.

“Just... relax,” the woman whispers, bending so she can curl her emaciated corpse of a body around him. He can’t struggle out of her grip, the weight of the worms devouring him holding him down, and he stares up at her with terror sticking his throat closed. She lifts a skeletal hand to his eyes - _he sobs, no, gods, please no -_ but she only strokes away his tears. Leaves his eyes intact, for now.

“You will be...so beautiful,” she murmurs, stroking over his eyelids with a touch like the brush of an insect’s legs. “A home. A symphony of life. A haven for the ascension you denied the world.” She smiles, and maybe in a different face it would be soothing, but in hers it is a rictus grin. A worm falls from the corner of her mouth, squirms for a moment on the unmarred flesh of his cheek, then burrows beneath the skin. The woman runs a fingertip over where it sank into him.

“Don’t - ” Oscar chokes out. “Get it out, please, _please - ”_

The heat and weight of the hive clenches around and inside him, and he would swear he can feel it as his organs putrefy, can feel the decay that stuffs him full, feel the slick blue-black rot that pulses in him like a fever. “Beautiful,” the woman purrs again, and Oscar sobs beneath her, but the ruins of his hips arch up into her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> It isn't October til I write Jane doing something horrible to my faves, now is it?


End file.
